As philosophy much of this, printed on a neat little card, would do splendidly to hang in a business office for the encouragement of the employees. As poetry it is negligible. Mr. Untermeyer lacks entirely the one gift which could redeem it--the gift of poignancy. This lack is particularly striking in the middle section, called _Interludes_, in which he pauses for a little from revolt. These are love songs and lyrics, a field in which anything not perfect is no longer acceptable. And Mr. Untermeyer's are not perfect. His sense of rhythm is extremely primitive and his lyrics are full of words. Only now and then, when he forgets for a moment how manly he is, does he say anything simply enough to strike home. These lines, for instance, from _Irony_ stick: There is no kind of death to kill the sands that lie so meek and still ... But man is great and strong and wise-- And so he dies. But in the main it is unfortunate that Mr. Untermeyer, who writes so much and so readably on the subject of poetry, should put out so pretentious and undeveloped a volume as this is. It is inevitable that it should affect his standing as a critic, and there seems little doubt that his work in that field is really valuable to the cause of poetry in America today. --Eunice Tietjens. TWO BIOGRAPHIES: VERLAINE AND TOLSTOY _Paul Verlaine_, by Wilfred Thorley; _Tolstoy: His Life and Writings_, by Edward Garnett. [Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston.] When autumn is in your heart--not that of the golden delirium of exotic agony, but bleak weeping autumn of crucifixion and dead leaves--what dirge, what note haunts you in accompaniment to your grief? Maddening darts from Tchaikowsky's _Pathétique_, or _Weltschmerz_-moans from Beethoven's _Marchia Funebre_, or an unuttered accord known only to your soul? Or, if you are a brother of mine, do your lips soundlessly mutter this? Les sanglots longs Des violons De l'automne Blessent mon coeur D'une langueur Monotone. Don't you hear the resonance of the tolling bells in Chopin's _Funeral March_? Your sorrow grows crescendo as you proceed, recalling Massenet's _Elégie_: Tout suffocant Et blême, quand Sonne l'heure, Je me souviens Des jours anciens Et je pleure; Et je m'en vais Au vent mauvais Qui m'emporte Deçà, delà Pareil à la Feuille morte.